Cover Reveal and a Little Evening Smut

On Edge Lange

It’s been awhile since I slipped inside the internet and got you folks hot and bothered. Life gets in the way and my life has been way too lifey lately. Between a major career change, family problems, mental health issues and dealing with imposter syndrome, I’ve been nervous about sharing my work despite writing like I’m running out of time…a little Hamilton nerdery there.

Seeing a four-star review on the first two stories in my Bachelor’s Series, however, has rejuvenated me. (Thanks Kesha!! And don’t worry; the third installment is coming soon.)

So, I figured it was time to drop a collection of stories I’ve had planned for a couple of years now.

On Edge: An Anthology of Solitary Sexploration is the first in what I hope to be an on-going series about a sexual act most folks engage in and nobody talks about: masturbation. Masturbation plays an interesting role in our sexual development regardless of age, gender, ability or sexual orientation. Half of the proceeds from this book will go to and their “Helping Hands Membership,” which allows members full access to their site.

I chose BateWorld because, as I researched these stories I realized they had a lot of resources to help people be more comfortable with their bodies. They are super inclusive, too, which make them even more amazing in my eyes. A lot of terminology I use in these stories come from their Bator Blog. Feel free to check them out at, and even donate if the urge strikes.

The stories in On Edge are male-centric, though it is my goal in future installments to be more inclusive. I would like to see female, asexual, trans and disabled bodies represented because as I said masturbation is far from male-centric. I put a call out a few years ago for stories from people from all walks of life and, sadly, nobody bit. So if you have a story idea, or if you have a story or essay of your own, feel free to email me at I have a terrific editor who is willing to edit any and all of your stories.

And with that my fellow smut enthusiasts, I must bid you goodnight. Look for On Edge: An Anthology of Solitary Sexploration next week (July 16th) and feel free to leave a comment about the cover.

Sleep tight!


Read Further for a Sexy Story from the Book:

Until Next Time


  1. F. Lange

The door is never locked.

I like the way you walk in like you own the place, always so professional in your suit and tie.

In all the time we have been meeting this way, we’ve barely said a handful of words to each other.  Are you ashamed of us?  Or is it exposing such a private moment to another man that keeps you so quiet?

I think you like the way my eyes dance across your body as you strip.  It’s in the way you loosen your tie, the slow, methodical way you pop each shirt button open with deliberate ease.  Your belt opens with a soft jingle followed by a hiss like a long, slow exhale and my eyes fall on the growing bulge beneath your expensive slacks.  What I wouldn’t give to fall down in worship before you, to inhale the day’s musk from your masculine organ…taking a piece of you inside of me.

But that is not the nature of our relationship.

You have a life outside of this space.  Obligations of which I play no part.  I never want you to think that I don’t understand.  I do.  Beneath the expensive clothes and wedding ring, you and I are both simple men.  Simple men sharing one extended moment of male need together, behind closed doors.

It is a powerful bond.

You stand there just inside my door, pornography reflecting in the whites of your eyes and stroking your proud cock.  I spread my legs on the sofa, exposing my own rigid erection.  I have been edging myself all day in preparation for tonight.  Seeing how hard you are already takes me to the brink all over again.

You sidle onto the sofa beside me, the heat radiating from your hairy, male body lapping at my own nakedness and turning me into a furnace.  I know you feel the weight of my stare on your penis.  Your leg brushes against mine as you spread your thighs wider, giving yourself greater access to your heavy cock.  I devour you with my eyes since I can’t taste you with my mouth.

The moans lilting from the pornography captivate you.  I watch as your hand closes around the shaft of your beautiful penis.  Your strokes are slow, almost teasing, as if you want this moment to last forever.  The male fluid spilling from you is all the lubrication you need.  The thick, slurping sounds issuing from your greedy fist drive me wild.

I don’t remember fisting my own erection, but there I am beside you, matching you stroke for stroke.

I almost cum.

I have to pull my hand away fast to keep from spilling the contents of my balls all over myself.  Even so, some of the semen belches from my tip anyway.  It spills down my shaft, mangling the dark mantle of my cock hair.  My hips buck impulsively as if staving off the rest of my edge.

When I look up you are watching me.  You have never looked at me like that before, like you are seeing my nakedness, my penis…like you are seeing me for the first time.  Our eyes meet.  I want to say something profound but worry you will hear the anxious hitch in my throat.  And so I spread my knees wider into yours, allowing you to see rather than hear how I feel.

I can tell you are close.  Your face always takes on a relaxed, slack look when you are about to cum.  Your eyes glaze over and your breathing grows more ragged, your entire body poised for release.

I can’t tear my eyes from your pumping fist.  I want to see everything that beautiful cock of yours has in it.  I want to encourage you to let it go, to never hold back, but I am once again lost within my own edge that the words escape as a feeble moan.  Your eyes flutter into the back of your head.  I want to dip my tongue in that small part between your lips.

You cum.

Thick, virile ropes of sperm jet across your chest and belly, mangling your pubic hair.  The sight of you lost in silent orgasm sends me toppling over the edge I have been fighting all day, my orgasm ripping a primal moan from me as my cock spews rope after creamy rope across my naked body.

Afterward, I dissolve into a puddle of spent, male flesh on the sofa beside you.  I realize I am leaning against you and right myself.  You are watching me again.  Is that a private smile I see?  What are you thinking right now, in this moment?

You never say.

You dress in silence—pants, shirt, tie—quicker now, as if ashamed suddenly of what we have just done.  When you are finished you look fresh from work all over again.

“I’ll call.”

You practically whisper the words and we share an entire conversation with only our eyes in the moment that stretches between us.  I smile, nod.  You leave.

Until next time, my friend.

Follow the links and check out Bachelors: Secrets and Bachelors: Firsts, both FREE on Kindle Unlimited.



New Year, New Smut

This month I thought I would do something I have never done before: offer a sneak peak of a WIP that I am currently editing.  Keep in mind, it is still a rough draft and is something that might be considered niche erotica given the subject matter: a bisexual nudist who doesn’t believe in showers and whose primal, male funk turns him on.  I got the idea after reading about a man who lived a year traveling cross-country, bathing only in the natural bodies of water he came across on his journey.  Something about it turned me on, and thus this story was born.  As always, feedback is welcome.  Enjoy, and Happy New Year!

Raunchy Roommates

Chapter One: Broke

I never wanted a roommate.

That was Blake’s idea.

I liked living alone.  I found the solitude helped my writing.  Not that I’d had much luck in that department lately.  My publicist Jan was fond of telling me to get my hand out of my pants and get back to work.  How could she know I hadn’t written the first word in months?  Or that I didn’t wear pants?

I’m a nudist, born and raised, which is probably why I was still single at almost 40 years old.  The people I dated didn’t get it.  Or else they got too clingy because of it.  Neither of which kept me around for very long.  I’ve always been my own best company, comfortable in my own skin.  My parents raised me to be proud of who I am, of who I represented.  And what I represented was myself.  The word “narcissist” had been tossed in my face like a glass of Dom Perignon by a jilted lover more times than I could count.

And maybe I was.

Nobody spent as much time on their bodies as I did just to cover it up in the privacy of their own home.  I loved my body.  At six-five and almost 250 pounds of pure muscle, I carried myself with a bestial air men and women seemed drawn to.  Maybe it was my intense brown eyes.  Or the sharp, angular features that constructed my rugged face.  Or maybe it was the male hair that coated my broad chest and belly and drooled into the pelt between my legs.

Whatever it was that drew people to me, I was hot and I knew it.  The various mirrors I kept hanging around weren’t just to make my posh, Chicagoan penthouse feel airier.

I’m also a naturist, another reason the idea of getting a roommate was laughable.  It isn’t that I didn’t believe in showers.  I just believe in cutting my carbon footprint by as much as possible without cutting into my lavish lifestyle.  There is a word for me in the gay community:


Not the most flattering given my fabulous disposition, but I carried the mantle with pride.  Yet another reason I’m probably still single.  As a culture we have a hard enough time coping with our own nudity.  Let alone stalking around naked and malodorous.  It also didn’t hurt that my own natural stink was a lightning rod to my cock.  The reek of other people also turned me on.  Men.  Women.  It didn’t matter.  I’m an equal opportunity fucker.

“Did you hear me, Ian?” Blake scolded through the phone sandwiched between my ear and shoulder.  “You’re broke.  You haven’t written a word in a year and yet your expenses have risen exponentially.”

The way he said “expenses” reminded me of my latest excursion to the Cayman Islands.  Ten days in the Caribbean.  Eating what I wanted.  Fucking who I wanted.  No guilt, no shame…just the way I liked things.

“I heard you,” I said, a little annoyed.  “You just caught me playing my…game.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se.  Playing video games sometimes helped kick start the creative juices.  My Xbox was still paused, the intro music for Halo: Reach muted in the background.  Except Blake hadn’t caught me blowing away Covenant bent on destroying the human race.  He’d caught me masturbating.  My softening cock still glistened with my juices against the hairy muscle of one thigh.  The dense male hair at the base reeked of my pheromones…of me.

“Ian!” Blake screeched, pulling me out of my cock trance.

“What do you want me to say, Blake?” I bit back at him.  “I have expensive tastes.  You know this.”

“And those tastes are going to land you in the poorhouse if you’re not more careful,” Blake snapped back.  He heaved a deep sigh through the phone and I could almost see him rubbing his temples in frustration like I might make his head explode.  “Have you given any more thought to my roommate idea?”

“Have you ever had a roommate, Blake?”  I cut him off before he could answer.  “Someone who isn’t your husband?” I corrected.  “It’s a lot to process.  Learning somebody’s habits.  Them learning yours.”

“It’ll be a change,” Blake sympathized, “especially for you.  But a roommate will help you offset some of your expenses.  As it stands now, you have enough cash to carry you through the end of the year.  But only if you curb some of your spending.”

“Don’t worry that number pushing head of yours,” I offered as lightly as I could.  “The kid’s still got a few wildcards up his sleeve.”

“You’re hardly a kid, you’re forty.”

“At the end of the year,” I quickly corrected him.

Blake loved reminding me of my age, as if it wasn’t constantly breathing down my throat like an unrelenting cock.

“If nothing else you can always stay with me and Shad,” Blake laughed, the tension melting between us.  “If you lose your place, that is.”

That was Blake for you.  Always looking out for me.  He was more than my accountant.  He was my best friend.  The two of us had practically grown up together.  I was the one who officiated his wedding, for fuck’s sake.  If anyone knew the extent of my hedonism it was Blake Silver.  Even if it was just numbers flitting across a screen to him.

“Tell Shad not to make up the guest room just yet,” I said.  “I’ve still got a time before I’m completely destitute.”

“Who said anything about the guest room?” Blake quipped.

“Goodbye, Blake.”

I hung up and tried to get into my cock again but the mood had passed.  Leave it to Blake to kill my boner.  Instead I stalked naked over to my laptop, flashing all of Chicago a glimpse at my brilliant physique.  Fuck, I loved that view.  The Chicagoan skyline outside my window was like my own voyeuristic giant peeking in on me.  And I loved giving it a show.

The screen was still frozen on the blank document I had toiled with earlier, trying to spew words onto the page that didn’t sound like utter shit.  I opened a web browser and went to Craigslist.  I stared at the blank space awaiting my ad like it was the manuscript for my latest novel.  How do you advertise for something you didn’t even want?  “Self-indulgent nudist seeks raunchy roommate” seemed a little on the nose.

In the end I went the more practical route:

Roommate Wanted:

Struggling writer seeks roommate to share expenses on luxurious downtown flat.  Must be respectful of personal space as this is still MY home.

Not the warmest advertisement on the market but I think I got my point across.  I added the address in case someone wanted to Google Maps the Townsend Commons, as well as my personal cell number so they could set the appointment.

Once posted, I sat back in my chair at the dining room table, arms behind my head just…staring at the screen.  The idea of sharing my penthouse with a complete stranger triggered my anxiety – that hidden gem always lurking there beneath the surface of my otherwise flawless physique. I should have added “must be comfortable with nudity” as a caveat to my ad.  Either way, whoever responded would have to get used to seeing my hairy, muscular body walking around in the buff.

If someone responded.  Did people even still use Craigslist?  I hoped not.

The smell of my ripe pits triggered the visceral response of my cock all over again.  Soon, I was standing on end, my bulbous head jutting angrily through the hood of foreskin hugging the bloated coronal ridge.

I closed my laptop, standing to flash all of Chicago a view of my perfect muscle ass as I stalked over to the sofa and back to more pressing concerns.

A Holiday Excerpt


“GODDAMNIT RODRIGO!”  Snake’s thunderous voice made them both jump as he paced around their kitchen island like a caged animal, Marissa’s phone clamped to his ear.  “I don’t care if you have to dig a snow tunnel to get here ese.  Just get your ass here and pick me up.  You owe me, homeboy.”

Snake ended the call, tossing the phone back on the counter.  He plucked a cookie off the tray sitting there and bit into the gingerbread head.  “Got anything to drink in this place?”

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Marissa offered.

Snake opened the refrigerator and rummaged for one of Thom’s Coors Light.  Twisting the cap off the bottle, his gaze shifted to Thom.  A little smile curled his kissable lips as those dark eyes glided over Thom’s naked body, lingering on his flaccid penis.

“Looks like I interrupted something,” Snake said.  “You two should really lock your doors.  Don’t you know how many burglaries happen around Christmas?”

“Wha-What do you want?”

“Told you ese, just need a place to hang low awhile.”  Snake cast a cursory look around the kitchen.  “Besides, nothing you two have I need.  But seeing how it looks like we’re going to be spending the night together we should get to know each other.”

Marissa stepped between them.  “My husband’s name is Thom,” she said.  “I’m Marissa.”

Those deep, honeyed eyes ensnared her where she stood.  The thickening bulge beneath Thom’s borrowed sweatpants reminded her of her empty cunt.

“Well, Marissa,” Snake smiled over the longneck of his beer, “since you seem to be the one calling the shots here, tell your hubby he can get dressed.  You too, chica, unless you two feel like finishing whatever it is you started.”

He licked his lips as he drank her in with his eyes.

Marissa held his gaze, defiant despite her pounding heart.  “We are fine.”

Thom’s entire body flushed red as his face.  He looked defeated, humiliated.  Still, Marissa thought she saw his little member twitch between his legs.


Thom trailed off when Marissa flashed him a hard look.  She knew what he was about to say.  Snakes erection was more noticeable now, an obscene tent in the front of his borrowed sweats.  He gave the thickness a smug tug, smiling at the way Marissa’s eyes lingered.

“I think wifey here sees something she wants for Christmas, hombre,” Snake chuckled.  Thom gave a pathetic squeak.  “No worries, man.  Not really in the business of breaking up marriages.  What God brought together, and all that.”

Snake drained the rest of his beer and grabbed another from the fridge before pushing past Marissa and Thom, and back into the living room.  Both gaped after him a second before following.  The twinkle of Christmas lights mixing with the glow from the fireplace lent a soft warmth to the downstairs.  Snake went to the mantle where two overstuffed stockings hung, eyeing their wedding photos.

“No kids?” he asked.

“No,” Marissa answered.

Snake searched her face, his dark eyes penetrating.  “Cute couple like you should have at least a couple little ones running around.”

“We don’t,” Marissa said.

What she left unsaid was that Thom’s sperm lacked the motility needed to get her pregnant, which was fine with Marissa.  She preferred the independence of being childless, though the idea of kids had grown more and more appealing over the past few years—almost as pressing as her need to come.

Snake shrugged, returning his eyes to the photo.  “You are one hot blanca, no doubt about that.”

“How long are you planning on keeping us hostage here?” Thom asked, more assertive than Marissa would have imagined considering he was naked, bashfully trying to cover himself.

“You already tired of me, hombre?” Snake said.  He took a long draught of his beer and set the bottle on the mantle.  “Just till my buddy gets here, then I’m ghost.  All goes the way I hope, we all stand to get a little something in return.”

Snake’s dark eyes snapped to Marissa.  “Impressive, blanca, no?”

Marissa realized she was staring again.  Her eyes danced between the faces of the two men—Thom with something of a scorned look to his blue eyes; Snake with a hungry gleam in his.  Marissa’s face heated beneath the combined weight of their stares.

“What’s the matter?” Snake said, his accent going straight to Marissa’s pussy.  “Hubby not giving you what you need?”

“Thom is a good provider,” Marissa said, the words trembling on her lips.

Snake laughed.  “I’m not talking about the house, the job, the white fucking picket fence, blanca.”  He made a rude gesture with his hips that made Marissa ache.  “I’m talking about fucking, chica, about sex.  How does Thom here take care of you where it counts?”


If you liked what you read and want to see how things end up for Marissa and Thom, check out Cuck’d for Christmas on Amazon here and feel free to leave a review. Otherwise, I wish everyone a warm season.  May your stockings be hung and full to bursting.

See you next year!


Too Long


It had been too long and we both knew it.  It was like a firewall between us.  The random arguments.  We were at each other’s throats.  Not that it was our fault.  At least, not one of us.  Life got in the way.  Add the kids, the schedules, the school lunches – bed by ten and wash, rinse, repeat – and marriage lost some of its eroticism.

So when he pinned me against the wall out of nowhere, I was ready to snap.  His heady lips crushing into mine crushed my anger at having him confront me like this, in the bathroom, naked and about to shower. When he palmed my cunt that familiar, too-long forgotten heat flooded my abdomen.  He had me wet and exactly where he wanted me.

“Time to make up for lost time,” he growled against my neck, his kisses soft and rough in equal parts.

I could feel his cock hard against my belly.

“The kids are downstairs, having breakfast,” I breathed.  “We…”

“…are doing this,” he finished for me.  “Guess you’ll have to be quiet.  Bite me if you need to scream.”

And I did.  Leaving a bright blue mark where my teeth sank into his shoulder when he reached inside of me with his thickness, and i flooded his cock with my release.

It really had been too long.




The Happening at Hartford


She hated haunted houses.  Ever since she was little and her dad took her through that stupid haunted house at the school’s Fall Festival and she’d bolted through the first exit door she saw—Cristobel Shaw had hated haunted houses.

All of her friends knew it, which was probably why they insisted on going to one that night.


Cristobel hated Halloween.

It was probably because she hated being scared.  Growing up she never did the things her friends did on Halloween, like play with Ouija boards or conduct séances in creepy cemeteries.  All of this, despite her stoic proclamation that she was, indeed, Wiccan.  Cristobel preferred her Hallows’ Eve a little more serene, her anxiety firmly in check.

Which was why she was fuming mad when they pulled through a pair of rusty, cast-iron gates and into the huge parking lot outside of a gutted asylum.

Hartford Asylum had once been a haven for the criminally insane.  Its reputation of harboring some of the city’s most dangerous men and women was probably why someone decided to convert the place into one of the largest haunted houses around after it was closed a few years back.  Three stories of climbing gray walls and rooms actors were allowed to drag you away from and through a hellish maze of torment.  Whoever made it out “alive” got their money back.

“No,” Cristobel said, watching the flashing lights crackle through darkened windows as they pulled up.  She could hear the screams from inside even though their windows were up.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” shouted Lauren Kyle, hugging the back of the passenger seat where Cristobel was sitting.

“I told you she’d be too scared,” insisted Lindsay Munez.

“We’ll pay,” pressed Mary Chastain all serious from the driver’s seat.  “You’ll be with us the whole time.”

“No,” Cristobel said again.

Not only had her friends deceived her, but Cristobel was not dressed in the same hoodie-and-sweats Fall wear as the other girls.  They had told her they were going to the club, so Cristobel had dressed accordingly—short black skirt and v-neck blouse that showed off just enough of her proud cleavage to make the guys dressed in goofy costumes throw drinks at her all night.  Besides, the boots laced to her knees wouldn’t accommodate running through a haunted house very well.

Cristobel looked around at her friends’ expectant faces.  Pissed as she was, she certainly didn’t want to be that girl—the one that ruined everyone else’s good time.

“Go,” she said at last, folding her arms.  “I’ll wait here.”

“You sure, Cristy?” Lauren said from the backseat.

“I can stay with you if you want,” Mary offered.

Cristobel glanced back at Lindsay.  “Any of that blunt left?”

“Yeah,” Lindsay said.

“Then I’ll be fine,” Cristobel laughed.  “I’ll celebrate this fucked up holiday my own way.”  She shook her head.  “I swear I’ll never get peoples’ fascination with death.”

“We’ll hit the club later,” Lauren promised, slapping a wet kiss on Cristobel’s cheek.

“The website said it should take about an hour,” Mary said.  “We should be out by then.”

“If we can stay alive…” Lindsay joked ominously.

“Go,” Cristobel said, snatching the rest of the blunt from the ashtray and sparking it.  “I’m already bored.”

Cristobel watched her friends disappear behind the shadowy walls of Hartford Asylum through a haze of pot smoke. She listened as electronic thunder pounded with the screams of the terrified whose voices rose on the night like some hellish roller coaster ride gone horribly awry.  Faux tombstones littered the leaf-strewn front lawn.  Bloody mannequins swung from trees or lay disemboweled by the front gates.

Cristobel shuddered.

No matter how many times she rationalized the fanfare of Halloween—the blood and guts and gore—Cristobel could never quite get over her innate fear of the holiday.  Luckily, marijuana had many healing properties when it came to the irrational brain, and soon Cristobel felt some of her anxiety melt away.

She began to grow restless in the front seat of Mary’s car.

Opening the door to stretch her legs, Cristobel nearly knocked a couple over as they headed to the Asylum.

“Oh…sorry,” she said, certain they could see and smell the pungent cloud reeking from the car.

The man and woman, already jumpy with anticipation for the adrenaline rush they were about to put themselves through, only laughed and quickened their pace, practically running toward the screams.  Cristobel wished she could be half as ballsy.  Afterward, the couple would probably go home and fuck their living brains out.  Cristobel had heard fear could have that effect on people.

She rubbed her bare arms in the crisp breeze, her nipples suddenly stiff with the thought.  Aside from its antianxiety components, weed also made Cristobel horny as hell.

She found herself gazing up at Hartford Asylum with a newfound lust.  Not that she could ever will herself to enter its dark walls.  But the thought of it…of giving herself over to her fear…elicited a dark yearning somewhere in the pit of her core.

Cristobel stalked through the night—over tombstones and fake corpses—breezy fingers tussling her long black hair as she let her eyes climb the dizzying heights of the asylum.  Somehow, the screams coming from inside no longer sounded as hellish as before, but called like a distant song to some empty place in her groin.  Cristobel suddenly envied her friends for experiencing it all without her.  She cursed her own misgivings and childish fears, keeping her from this new need.

“You lost?”

The deep voice pulled Cristobel from her spiraling thoughts.  She was surprised to find herself outside an emergency exit door on the side of the building.  The sight of it reminded her how quickly she had fled all those years ago.

The man peering at her through a fall of black hair framing his handsome face was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the brick and mortar of the building with one leg cocked on the wall behind him.  He was covered in blood.

One of the workers from inside no doubt taking a break.

Still, the urge to run screaming back to the car and lock herself inside clawed at her flesh.

“I’m…waiting for some friends,” Cristobel said.

“Lucky them,” the stranger said.

The way he smiled at her made Cristobel’s face flush beneath the nearby streetlamp shining down on them like a police investigator’s spotlight.  Something about him put Cristobel at ease…to know she wasn’t alone out here.

“So, what’s it like working at a haunted house?” Cristobel asked, attempting small talk.

“Boring, actually,” he said.  “How many times can you scare someone twice?  They want us to be inventive.  Guess I’m just not smart enough for all that.  This is just a part-time gig, anyway.  You know, to get a little extra cash.”

He drew a long drag from his cigarette and extended a bloodied hand.  “I’m Jason, by the way.”

Cristobel blinked down at the wet fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” Jason said, wiping his hands on his jeans.  “It’s fake.  Water-based.  Washes right off.”

Blood still smeared his fingernails and the small crevices of his fingers.  Something about it—such a deep, viscous black—called to her.

“Cristobel,” she said, feeling his warm hand swallow hers.

Jason pulled away, leaving a red smear on her palm.  “So why didn’t you accompany your lady friends inside?” he asked.

Cristobel’s breath frosted on the cool air.  “I don’t like haunted houses, is all,” she shrugged.   “Guess I just don’t get off on being scared.”

“So then you admit it,” Jason smirked.  “You’re scared.”

Cristobel bustled, ready to fly into a defense that would hold up in any court.  It took her a moment to realize he was fucking with her.

“Cute.”  Cristobel couldn’t resist a smile.  “Is this your way of first impressions?  Show up covered in blood and mock a girl’s phobia.”

Jason laughed, flicking his cigarette away.  “It’s all an illusion Cristobel,” he said, brandishing his bloody hands.  “All makeup and lights and sounds.  It’s all movie production without the cameras.  Action!”

Cristobel’s heart pounded faster and faster as the man inched closer and closer.  Fear ripped at her to run, but a tree suddenly pressed against her back and the man’s body heat falling in on her felt too good.

“Here,” said Jason.  “Touch.  See for yourself.”

With trembling fingers Cristobel dared reach out to touch the man’s upturned hand, stroking every crimson-stained line of his palm.  She knew it was all an act, as Jason had told her.  It just looked so…real.  It terrified her and excited her all at once, and Cristobel was suddenly overcome with the need to feel those bloody fingers on her body.  That need was intensified by a wave of screams from inside the asylum.

Jason watched her beneath the shadow of his long hair, a coy little smile playing on his lips.

Did he want her too?

Cristobel needed to know.

Bringing one of his bloody digits to her lips, she kissed the tip of his finger and tasted the metallic bite of the makeup. The gesture seemed to amuse Jason.

“See, Cristobel,” he said.  “Nothing to be afraid of.”

Everything happened so fast—Jason’s strong arms wrapping around her, his body pinning her to the tree, those stubbly lips closing over hers in a mad kiss.

Cristobel couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Her heart pounded with the thunder rolling inside, yet Cristobel made no attempt to push the man away.  Instead, her fingers drifted beneath Jason’s bloodied shirt, feeling the tautness of his shoulders, the sweatiness of his flesh.  One hand reached for the hem of her skirt, fingers like soft velvet stroking the smooth meat of her thigh.  Cristobel could feel the hardness of his cock strained against her belly, one knee planted between her legs parting her thighs.

Jason’s finger traced the line of her panties, ripples of sensation sparking across Cristobel’s flushed skin like the flashes of light in the asylum’s windows.  She could only stand there with his tongue doing laps in her mouth, tasting his tobacco-addled breath as he pulled her panties aside to find the wet opening of her smooth slit.  Her hips pulsed forward impulsively as Jason stroked her pussy lips with one cruel finger.

The screams in Cristobel’s mind echoed those rising from Harford Asylum.    Jason turned his head slightly to the side, no doubt expecting a group of terrified patrons to come bursting through any moment.  Were it not for the need pooling within her core, Cristobel might have thrown her head back and laughed at the night’s sky.  Had she really been that afraid, herself?

“Fuck me,” she whispered into Jason’s ear, inhaling the smell of him—the musk and tobacco and blood.

Cristobel was already tugging open his jeans when Jason’s mouth closed over hers again so hard tiny whiskers scraped her lips.  Beneath her skirt those big, skilled hands found her panties, giving the lace a rough tug.

The crisp air, cool against her exposed sex, taunted Cristobel’s hungry cunt even as she hauled Jason’s eager cock through the hole in his boxers.

For a heartbeat Cristobel could only gaze at it.

He was so hard.  The shaft thick in her hand.  A thread of the man’s arousal glinting off the wet, pink flesh of his head.  Cristobel longed to taste him.  To suck him dry right there beneath the lamplight to the music of screams.

Jason had other plans.

Those big hands found the curves of her ass, bloody fingers digging into her fleshy cheeks as Cristobel felt herself lifted bodily from the ground and then roughly…thoroughly fucked.

Her cries of pleasure mingled with the screams of the frightened as she took this stranger beyond those terrifying walls.  Cristobel’s world narrowed to flushed, slapping flesh and crisp autumnal wind and dried leaves skipping across the ground like dancing nymphs.  Tree bark scraped at her shoulders like skeletal hands urging her on.  Her hips rushing to meet each of his thrusts, urging his climax even as he charged Cristobel onward toward hers.

Cristobel came in a rush around his cock, her cries swallowed by a primal moan from Jason as they toppled over the edge together.

For a moment she could only let him hold her, cock still full within the walls of Cristobel’s pussy as if Jason was afraid to leave her.  Spent, Cristobel wiggled herself against him as she listened to cackle of fake thunder.  The screams.  Jason’s quick, hot breath raked across her throat.

Cristobel was the first to break the sated silence.  “You got blood all over me.”  She could still taste the makeup’s metallic tang on her lips.

Jason breathed in the scent of her hair.  “Like I said…all fake.  Should come off the next time you shower.”

Cristobel eyed the red smears painting her thighs and arms and god knows where else.  She would definitely need a shower after this.

The emergency exit door burst open in a swell of screams.

Cristobel pushed away from Jason in a wash of embarrassment, snatching her panties up as a group of about a dozen girls came pouring from inside.  A few boys laughed and lingered behind, pinpoints of their fear glinting on their upper lips and forehead as they made their way leisurely through the exit long before the experience was over.


Cristobel would’ve recognized Lindsay’s voice anywhere.  Mary and Lindsay were huddled near her, both white as ghosts.  They looked ready to bolt with the rest of the group, but intrigue kept them planted where they stood, eyes collectively riveted on Jason.

“Oh…hey, guys,” Cristobel said, feeling her face heat.

She was sure she looked a wreck.  Her hair messed.  Make up fucked.  Finger smears of fake blood painting her body like a murder victim in some horror movie.

“Who’s this?” Mary asked, all at once protective and amused.

“This?” Cristobel said.  “This is Jason.  He…was just showing me around the estate.”

“That’s right,” said Jason, still fixing his jeans.  “Just showing your friend there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

He gave Cristobel a wink before donning a hockey mask from his back pocket.  He hauled a bloodied machete from the ground.  Somehow, Cristobel hadn’t noticed them before.  Jason pulled on his mask, eliciting a giggle from Lauren.

“Jason,” she said.  “I get it.”

Cristobel didn’t, though she assumed it was a reference to one of those dreadful horror movies Lauren was always going on about.  Though now, Cristobel thought she might just give one a try.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me ladies,” said Jason, his voice muffled through the mask.  “I need to get back to work.”

Jason ducked back through the emergency exit, the door slamming shut behind him.  His sudden absence made Cristobel wonder if the man was even real.  Had she really just fucked a complete stranger outside of a haunted house?

The moisture between her legs assured Cristobel she wasn’t crazy.  That some of Hartford Asylum hadn’t rubbed off on her.

“You slut,” Lindsay scolded as they walked away.

“Is that why you hate haunted houses?” Lauren laughed.  “You want to fuck every guy you see in a bloody t-shirt?”

Cristobel shrugged with a shy smile.  “Maybe.  What makes anyone do the things they do?”

She paused at the pair of mannequins she’d stepped over before.  They were so real, their faces twisted in grotesque expressions. She felt herself shutter with a new breeze.

“And hey, maybe we can skip the club tonight,” Cristobel added.  “I’m kind of tired.”

Mary snorted.  “I bet.  But don’t worry sweetie.  We’ll get you home safe and sound.”

The blood came off easily enough, just as Jason had promised.  The thought of him as Cristobel watched the crimson water swirling around the shower drain elicited some of the heat the man made her feel earlier.  Falling into her bed in just a robe, Cristobel clicked on her television and immediately turned to a different channel.

She hated the news.

Yet the news seemed to be on every channel.

Giving up the fight, she settled on a channel with a morose-looking journalist peering sadly into the camera like she was looking directly at Cristobel.  There was something familiar about the building behind her, sectioned off with police tape and flashing lights.  A banner along the bottom of the screen read:

The Happening at Hartford

Cristobel’s heart began to race as her phone chirped on the nightstand beside her.

“Oh, Cristobel, thank god you’re okay,” Mary said from the other line.  “The other girls are in hysterics but I…I just needed to know you were alright.”

Mary sounded near hysterics herself.

“I’m fine,” Cristobel said, trying to keep her own anxiety in check.  “Calm down, Mary.  What’s going on?”

“Hartford…the haunted house…killer…”

The words all came spilling out, fragmented, but enough Cristobel grasped what her friend was trying to say.  All at once she recognized the place on her television screen—the same climbing walls and leaf-strewn lawn, littered now with evidence markers instead of tombstones, body bags rather than mannequins.

Cristobel felt ill.

“I have to go,” she said into her phone, hanging up even as Mary pleaded for her to stay on the line.

Cristobel Shaw really hated Halloween.

A rap at her bedroom window snatched her from her brooding thoughts.  Jason smiled at her through the glass, his hair a tumbling mess around his blood-smeared face, eyes wild as they watched her trembling fingers reaching for the lock…

New Story and a Little Excerpt

August 29, 20184-30-6-00 PMRoom 204

With my new story Bachelors: Secrets about to go live, I thought I’d offer a little excerpt here on my blog.  If you like it, go check it out on Kindle for .99 or for free with Kindle Unlimited.

And now, without further ado:


I tried to pretend I didn’t feel Jason’s prick against my lower back as his fingers dug into my neck and shoulders.  The massage felt too good to make him stop.  Besides, Jason wasn’t the first “straight” guy I knew who got a little handsy after a few drinks.

“Feel good?”

My body felt like a mound of dough being kneaded beneath those powerful fingers. “Mm-hm,” I mumbled.

My tongue felt like lead in my mouth.

Jason’s fingers worked their magic down the base of my neck.  Goosebumps exploded all over my naked back, rippling down my arms.

“Blaine know how much stress you keep back here?” Jason’s deep bravado reverberated above me.

“He knows, but he – oh!”  Jason found a tension knot and worked at smoothing it out. “– he doesn’t have anything on you,” I finished weakly.

Jason just laughed, those skilled fingers tracing the length of my spine.  I thought about Blaine passed out in the next room.  My soon to be husband never could hold his booze. If he happened to wake up to find me laying shirtless on the floor, Jason straddling me, he’d totally freak.  Blaine had a jealous streak.  And he knew I was into guys like Jason.  Big, strapping man’s man type of guys. . . like mechanics.  I couldn’t help that mechanic just happened to be my future brother in law’s best friend.

Besides, I needed this.

The past few months had been hell.  The simple wedding Blaine and I had planned had somehow grown into an all-out affair in Vegas, complete with an Elvis impersonator and Blaine’s less than stable family.   At least Blaine agreed to a small bachelor party. A few friends. Some drinks. Everyone had a blast.  Even Blaine, who crashed before the party was over but who gave everyone a hug before stumbling off to bed – even Jason, who looked like he was getting just as blitzed but was handing it shades better than my fiancé.

“You’re crashing here,” Blaine slurred drunkenly, arms tangled around Jason’s thick neck. “No drive drunking on my watch, got it?”

Jason had laughed and slammed another shot of the whiskey he’d been working on all night. “You’re the boss!” he’d belted, nudging me as if to say, “right?”

It wasn’t until everyone left that Jason saw me rubbing the back of my neck and ordered me out of my shirt and onto the floor.  I felt a little awkward splayed out in front of him until those magical hands of his went to work.  The weight of him on top of me felt good and his cock . . . did Jason know he was sporting a boner?

My own cock twitched eagerly, sandwiched between me and the floor.   If Jason had me turn over right then he’d get a good look at it tenting out the front of my sleek, basketball shorts.

“Better?” Jason said, giving my ass a pat with one calloused hand.

God I loved homoerotic straight boys.

“Much,” I said, rubbing my neck to distract me from my erection. “Allison is probably in love, especially if you rub her down like that,” I laughed.

“We broke up,” Jason said off handed, like it was old news.

“Oh shit man, I didn’t know.”

Jason shrugged.  He was wearing a wife beater that had been under his oil stained work shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. He’d come straight from the garage he worked at to the party.  The only reason he showed at all was because Blaine’s brother Steve saw him out and about earlier in the day and invited him.  Otherwise, Blaine and I never saw Jason unless he was taking a look at one of our cars.

“Shit happens man,” Jason shrugged.

When he made to stand up he swayed on his feet. Thankfully the wall was there as a safety net to catch him. The whiskey was apparently catching up with him.

“Whoa, careful man.”

I stole the chance to adjust myself and pulled myself to my knees. . . crotch level with Jason. There was some definite bulge there.

“I’m good,”Jason chuckled. “Just gotta take a piss is all.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall and to the right.”

“Much obliged, sir,” Jason said with a cowboy-like nod before strutting away. Bow-legged as he was Jason even walked like a cowboy. I imagined that big, boulder butt of his crammed into a pair of leather, assless chaps and my dick jumped.

Like I said. . . I have a thing for the rugged type.


Cumming Soon!

August 29, 20184-30-6-00 PMRoom 204

Greetings my playful pups, how I’ve missed you all!

Things have been crazy on my side of the keyboard.  Lots of writing, editing, and, yes, a little bit of publishing.  I have four stories going live on Amazon over the next few weeks (more on those in a moment), but the main reason I wanted to touch base today is because I need your input.

Okay, so first thing’s first.  Let’s talk about the sexy stories I’ll soon have at your fingertips.  First is my Bachelors Series – a trilogy of shorts that is loosely based off an experience I had a few years back IRL.  The story follows a pair of gay boys about to take the plunge into married life.  On the night of their bachelor party, both find themselves in a sticky situation with a friend.  Only problem is that this friend is straight.  Those lines are blurred in this erotic treat, which I plan on following up through my protagonists’ wedding day.  Will my boys be able to process what they’ve done and incorporate it into their relationship?  Or will their secrets tear them apart?

The other book, I am proud to announce, is my first anthology.  On Edge is a collection of stories I’ve comprised over the past few years about something that is strangely still taboo in our culture:  masturbation.  Male masturbation, to be exact, though I am currently working on other stories focusing solely (solo-ly?) on female masturbation.  I am also interested in collaborating with other writers who would like to see their work featured in this upcoming anthology.

Portions of the proceeds from On Edge will also be donated to charity, and this is where you come in!  A lot of people need a lot of help right now.  If anyone has ideas on organizations I should consider, please feel free to comment on this post.  Or drop me an email @  I love hearing from you!

Well, that’s about all I have for today.  I’ll post some free smut soon, along with book covers (like the one above) and a few sexy snippets from my upcoming stories.  Until then…